FAMILY SECRETS
A Whispering Pines Mystery
Shawn McGuire
Copyright © 2017 Shawn McGuire
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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~~~
For Rachael.
Thanks for luring me to the dark side.
Chapter 1
“I’m losing it, Meeka.”
My West Highland White Terrier sneezed in response. Most likely she was agreeing with me, but she was also mad, so I couldn’t be sure. She loved car rides, which to her meant around town, getting out often to meet people. Five hours crated in the cargo area of my ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee made for one angry pup.
Had we gone fifteen miles yet? I forgot to check my odometer against that last sign. It had probably only been five. All I knew for sure was that I’d been driving on the two-lane country road through Wisconsin’s Northwoods for so long, a funhouse effect had settled in. The never-ending tunnel of pines, oaks, maples, birches, and other species I couldn’t identify was not my normal. I was used to row after row of houses crammed close together. Row after row of trees, not so much.
After another couple of minutes, we passed a sign so small I almost missed it: Whispering Pines 5 miles.
“We’re almost there, girl. Less than ten minutes and you’ll be running your little legs off.”
My phone rang, and my mom’s face gazed at me from the phone in the holder clamped to the air vent. I reached a finger toward the answer button but froze before touching it. I told her I’d call when I got to Gran’s. Guess she thought I should be there by now. I was twenty-six years old. When was she going to stop micromanaging my life?
The phone rang for a fourth time then went quiet. I clenched my hand into a fist and waited for her inevitable re-call. After a minute and no ringing, I relaxed and silently vowed to call her once I got to the house.
Up ahead on the right, the sign indicating the beginning of the village limits appeared. I slowed, checked that there was no one behind me, then pulled to a stop. The impressive wooden marker had to be at least ten feet wide and eight feet tall, the logs on either side were a good foot-and-a-half or two in diameter. It appeared to have been hand-carved by an artisan rather than machine-lathed.
Welcome to Whispering Pines
Est. 1966
A symbol was etched into the wood below the date—a circle with a pentacle in the center and a crescent moon flanking either side. When I was little, I thought the symbol represented the sun, moon, and stars. Now I knew that it was the Triple Moon Goddess symbol and represented the Maiden, Mother, and Crone. Whispering Pines, Wisconsin had been founded by followers of the Wiccan religion and to my knowledge, Wiccans still made up half the population. A narrow four-foot by two-foot plaque hung from the bottom of the sign and read, Blessed Be – Enjoy Your Visit.
The welcome sign brought forth an unexpected flood of memories. I was ten years old the last time I’d been here, but I remembered that sign like I’d just seen it yesterday. Not only had it been a signal to me and my little sister Rosalyn that we were mere minutes from Gran’s and Gramps’ house, it made me feel good. I’d liked the idea of being blessed.
I continued down the road, remembering happier times with my grandparents, and almost missed my turn.
“It’s the first right past the welcome sign,” my mother had reminded me numerous times, despite my assurance that my map app would get me there. “Be sure to stay on the left fork after you turn, Jayne, or you’ll end up at that campground.”
She’d said ‘that campground’ as though it was inhabited by a colony of lepers.
A quick glance as I passed showed that approximately half of the campsites were full. Whispering Pines’ tourist season started in six days with Memorial Day weekend. Every spot would be full then. Every hotel room and rental cottage booked. My plan was to do what I could with the house and head back to Madison early Friday morning before the highways clogged with holiday traffic.
As the landscape changed from dense forest to a clearing, the edge of the lake house came into view. I stomped on the brakes and jerked to a stop, not quite ready to see it yet. I debated for a minute about whether I’d be able to do this then let the car creep forward. Most things from a person’s childhood look smaller when seen as an adult, but in the sixteen years since I’d last been here, the house seemed to have grown. The seven-bedroom, nine-bathroom home had an enormous footprint, taking up almost half an acre. The steel-gray cedar siding and white trim were severely weather beaten. Winters in the Northwoods could be brutal, and the house looked like it had struggled to survive the last few.
“She hasn’t done a thing to that house in years,” Dad had warned in his email from . . . whichever Middle Eastern country he was currently searching for buried civilizations in. “We’re not going to get anything for it. Empty it and do the bare minimum to get it on the market. The sooner we get rid of it, the better.”
But as I stared at the house I hadn’t seen in sixteen years, a sense of nostalgia flooded me. This was my grandparents’ home. Despite my parents’ refusal to remember, I had warm-n-fuzzy memories of being here.
“Don’t worry, old girl,” I told the house, dismissing my father’s orders. “Nothing a few screws and a fresh coat of paint won’t fix. I’ll take care of you.”
A sudden wind blew in off the lake, making the trees sway as though waving or bowing. Or nodding with approval?
Meeka barked from her backseat prison, snapping me fully into the present.
“Okay, okay.”
I pulled forward and parked in front of the garage. As soon as the door on Meeka’s crate was unlatched, she burst free from the SUV like a flare from a gun. She ran once around the car then raced in big circles around the perimeter of the near quarter acre of lawn, barking at invisible pursuers and burning off the energy built up from the five-hour drive.
As I watched her, laughing at her antics, another gentle breeze blew through. The air smelled earthy, like pine trees with a hint of fish, and the sun sparkled off the rippling water. I closed my eyes and faced the sun where it hung in the western sky, letting the rays soak in and warm me. An unexpected sense of serenity filled me and for the first time in months, I felt my shoulders relax and drop from their permanently hunched position.
I hadn’t wanted to be the one to pack up the house, certain it would be too hard to be around Gran’s things. Rosalyn had finals this week at UW Madison, and her summer job started next week. Mom was always too busy with the spa to take any time off. Dad was, well, he was out of the country like always. Since I’d been unemployed for the last six months, Mom and Rosalyn decided this task was mine. Now that I was here, with the fresh air and sun on my face, there was literally no place else in the world I’d rather be.
Next to the boathouse on my left, was the pier. Di
dn’t it used to be much longer? Rosalyn and I used to run the length of it and, shrieking, jump into the lake. I had a sudden need to dangle my feet in the water. I’d taken three steps down the pathway of fieldstone pavers set into the grass when Meeka began to bark. Not her playful hey, a squirrel bark, but her red-alert hey, something’s wrong get over here quick bark.
“What is it?” I snapped, as though expecting the little terrier to answer, and then sighed. I hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks and exhaustion had finally caught up to me, making me cranky. Now that I had started to relax, that’s all I wanted to do.
Still, I turned toward the far right edge of the property. No, that wasn’t accurate. The property spread out over ten acres. About two of those acres were taken up with house and lawn. The remaining eight or so were wooded with huge pines and a sprinkling of deciduous trees, currently covered with the bright green leaves that signaled the return of spring. Rebirth and renewal. That’s where Meeka was having her fit, over by where the lawn met the tree line.
Concerned now, I jogged across the grass . . . which was in desperate need of fertilizing and weed control. I mentally added gardening to the list of chores that I suspected would be as long as my arm in a day or two.
As I got close to Meeka, she sat but still barked.
“This better be important.”
Then I saw what she’d found. Definitely important. Five feet away from my dog lay a body.
Chapter 2
Meeka was really worked up, partly from being in the car for so long, partly from her discovery. I had to calm her down so crouched in front of her, looked her square in the eye, and commanded her to be silent.
“Stay. Don’t move or you’re going back in the car.”
She immediately dropped to her belly and rested her head on her paws.
The first thing I noticed was the victim’s long, platinum blonde hair. My vision tunneled, and the earth seemed to tilt left and then right. That hair. It was the exact same color as Frisky’s, my CI in Madison who had died because of me.
“Stop,” I ordered myself. “You can’t do this right now. Focus on what’s in front of you.”
I pressed my fingers to my eyelids until I saw stars and then released. By the time my vision cleared again, the memory had receded.
“Ma’am?” I called out, hoping the young woman was only unconscious. She hadn’t moved, even after all the noise Meeka made, which told me she was likely deceased. “Miss, are you all right?”
Damn. No reaction. Not an eye flutter, not a finger twitch.
She was young, mid-twenties at best, and my guess—since she was in a semi-fetal position on her left side with her hands at her belly—put her at about five foot five. She had on short denim shorts and a bright yellow bikini top that revealed large breasts too round to be natural. Her partially-zipped white sweatshirt was stained with yellow-brown streaks and splotches that could be spilled food or maybe vomit. One of her red Converse sneakers had come untied.
The victim’s cloudy blue eyes were partially open, staring out at the lake. A sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks gave her a little girl appearance that contrasted starkly with the very womanly curves. An abrasion covered half of her right cheek, but there were no other visible bruises. How did she get the abrasion? Had she fallen here and scraped it on impact? Had someone hit her with something, a tree branch perhaps, and she fell? I glanced into the forest and noted fallen trees, large limbs, and clumps of dead but slowly re-growing weeds littering the floor. Had she tripped over something and scraped her face against a tree? Had she stumbled due to inebriation? Any number of scenarios were possible.
Areas of discoloration darkened the left sides of her legs, the sides against the ground. From the current position of the body, I couldn’t be sure if it was simply a shadow or if it was lividity. Five years as a police officer taught me that the latter meant the victim had died a minimum of thirty minutes ago.
I needed to check for a pulse. I stepped closer and placed my index and middle fingers to her cold, rigid neck. No pulse and rigor had set in. That meant she’d died at least two hours ago.
I patted my back jeans pocket for my cell phone, but I’d left it in the car.
“Meeka, come.” I jogged back to the Cherokee, grabbed my phone from the dashboard holder, and found . . . no bars. Damn. Mom had warned that cell reception in Whispering Pines was spotty on a good day.
My mind spun to formulate a plan. I needed to call the police and secure the scene. Which to do first? What if an animal wandered by and disturbed the body? What if the woman had been attacked and the assailant was still nearby? A quick glance at Meeka told me that no human or animal was in the area. If someone was close, her ears would be perked or she’d be standing at attention, looking in the direction of the intruder. She might be bitty, but Meeka was an excellent watchdog. The area appeared to be clear, so I’d call the police first.
Since my cell was useless, I’d have to use the house phone. From my backpack in the passenger’s seat, I retrieved the keyring Mom had given me. It was the diameter of a softball and loaded with the keys for every item on the property that locked or required a key for power—the house, furniture, the boathouse, storage shed, garden tractor, motor boat, and a dozen others for as yet unknown items. As we hurried to the front door, I flipped through the ring until I found the one with the blue plastic disk around the head—the front door key. I was about to insert it into the lock when I noticed that one of the small panes of glass on the door was broken.
My cop instincts took over, screaming crime scene, don’t leave fingerprints! I pulled my hand away, wrapped it with the hem of my T-shirt, and then grasped the handle. The door was closed, but unlocked. It hadn’t even swung all the way open when it became clear I was going to be in Whispering Pines for much longer than a week.
“Meeka, sit.” I pointed to a random spot at the side of the door. “You can’t come in. Stay.”
She sneezed, as if she understood, and crawled beneath one of four white wood rocking chairs there to ‘stay.’ Quirky dog.
The house was a disaster, and not because Gran had let the place ‘go to hell during her last years’ as my parents claimed. Someone had broken in and vandalized the place. At least what I could see from the entryway had been vandalized, which meant the hallway, dining room to the right, and sitting room to the left. Wary of contaminating the scene, I only took three or four steps inside.
In the dining room, the vandals clearly had a very good time destroying the possessions my grandparents had spent a lifetime acquiring. The crystal chandelier hanging over the polished walnut dining table had been smashed. The antique brass sconces mounted on either side of the once-gleaming china cabinet dangled from electrical wires. Deep green, Irish bone china plates I remembered eating a long-ago Thanksgiving dinner off of, lay in sharp shards on the hardwood floor. The dining chairs had been tossed about.
Numb, I turned away from the dining room and stood in the doorway of the sitting room. The vibrant blue damask upholstery on Gran's cherished antique sofa, where she used to read Rosalyn and me bedtime stories, was sliced open, bits of stuffing and an occasional spring poking out. An afghan Gran had spent one entire winter knitting lay unraveled on the floor. At least I assumed it was that afghan. The trio of brown, beige, and blue yarn looked familiar. Graffiti covered the ivory and beige striped wallpaper in both rooms. It was all symbols of some kind. Some resembled letters of the alphabet while others were more like crosses and arrows. They were more than just symbols, though. They seemed to form a message of some kind. But what?
Was the rest of the house in the same condition? I had to stay out and let the police and insurance folks walk through before I went any further. Speaking of the police, I picked up the extension on the table just inside the doorway of the sitting room and heard . . . nothing. No dial tone. I checked beneath the table, the line had been ripped from the wall.
“Are you kidding me?” I dropped
my head back and let out a groan of frustration. I’d just go get the police.
As I returned to my car, I was debating about covering the body when I spotted a man paddling past in a kayak twenty yards off shore. Perfect. Time to recruit.
“Sir!” I called as I ran closer to the water. “Sir, I need your help.”
The man looked around, there were others farther out on the lake, and pointed to himself. “Me?”
“Yes, please. I’ve got a problem here.”
He paddled over to the rocky shoreline and stepped out of the kayak when the boat touched bottom. He pulled it up onto the grass and dropped his paddle inside.
Approximate age late-twenties, five nine or ten, one hundred fifty pounds.
As though he had nowhere to be and no set time to be there, he hitched his dark-washed jeans up on his slim hips and sauntered over to me.
“Tripp Bennett.” He held out a calloused hand.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my name.” His reaction said he was used to responses like mine. “Tripper Bennett, but no one calls me Tripper.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bennett—”
“Tripp. And you are?”
“Jayne O’Shea. Look, Tripp, I’ve got a bit of a problem.”
That’s when Tripp looked past me toward the body at the edge of the lawn.
“I think I can guess what the problem is.” He grimaced and respectfully removed his olive-green knit hat, releasing a mass of wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair. Casting a suspicious glance at me he asked, “What happened?”
“I don’t know. My dog just found the body.” I motioned toward the house. “I’m here to get the place ready to sell.” I was blabbering, shaken up by both the dead woman and the scene inside the house. I needed to get control of myself in order to be in control of the situation. “My cell phone has no reception and the house phone isn’t working. I need you to call the police while I secure the crime scene.”
Family Secrets: A Whispering Pines Mystery Page 1